


What I see when I look in the Mirror

by blondeonblonde



Series: The Celebrity Years [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Insecure Sherlock, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, gratuitous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondeonblonde/pseuds/blondeonblonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a series of one-shots:<br/>Sherlock is featured in The Guardians column 'What I see when I look in the Mirror." He gives a blisteringly negative response and John tries to convince him of how attractive he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I see when I look in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Second in my series of one-shots inspired by the idea of celebrity. 
> 
> 'What I see when I look in the mirror' is a recurring feature in the Life and Style section of The Guardian newspaper (you can see an example of it here: http://www.theguardian.com/fashion/2014/may/03/richard-herring-what-see-in-mirror). I read the one of Alan Davies (who plays detective Jonathan Creek) and thought it would be funny to see what Sherlock would write.

**What I see when I look in the Mirror: Sherlock Holmes**

**Rosanna Greenstreet**

**The Guardian   Saturday 14 th July 2022**

_This is a difficult topic for me to write about as I have never thought my appearance to be worthy of much consideration, except for using it to my advantage when questioning suspects or adopting a disguise._

_John (_ Watson, his partner) _would say I have neglected my body over the years because he is always nagging me to eat and telling me off for smoking. Sometimes it is not fun to live with a doctor, although he is useful when I get injured, which is unfortunately often._

_My body is a graveyard of cases. Each scratch and scar leaving its bumpy toll on my skin, I could recite each case perfectly from the memory of those injuries. I hate each one. They signal a defeat, a fault in my reasoning and anticipation that has left me fallible and open to the weaknesses of the human form._

_Some of my more ridiculous fans have likened my appearance to that of an otter although I don’t see the resemblance myself. I have always thought I rather resemble a serpent, the planes of my cheeks are too flat, my eyes are tilted and wide set and my nostrils are rather pointed._

_I am going hideously grey at the temples and I can’t stand the thought that I am getting old. On John it looks distinguished and handsome to have white intermingled with blonde, but in between my dark unruly curls it looks ridiculous. At first I tried to pluck them out one by one, but John got angry and told me he would not be happy if I became bald through over-plucking. He likes to run his hands through it when we are in bed so I had to stop._

_I also cannot stand the thought of becoming fat, my brother is as big as a whale and serves as a constant warning. I have so far fended off this predicament, but whether that is down to superior genetics or the great deal of running I do, I have no idea._

_I wish I looked more average and not so odd looking. It would be far preferable to live without such a freakish face and vastly easier to dissolve into a crowd._

John put down the Life and Style section of the paper, and exhaled his usual weary put-upon sigh. It’s the soundtrack to his and Sherlock’s relationship, their constant companion.

“What have I done now?” Sherlock questioned from across the room, eyes focused intently at the laptop on the table.

“You’re in the paper again, Sherlock.” John replied and held up the article for Sherlock to see. His eyes flicked over momentarily then returned to the laptop.

“Oh, that.”

“You knew about this then?” John answered incredulously.

“Of course. They emailed me and asked me to write 350 words on the subject, which I responded to.” He glanced at John and noticing his exasperated expression added “You did _tell_ me to do it, John.”

“What, When?”

“Last Tuesday. I started to read out to you all of my emails and you said “Just fucking reply to them all, you dickwad, and stop bothering me.” Sherlock recited this without any hint of emotional intonation, but John clearly remembered the occasion and his own more colourful vocal range.

“Ah, was this last Tuesday at _3.20_ in the morning by any chance? I’m sorry, how could I possibly forget!” John became increasingly irritated and his voice was louder and sharper than normal. “Perhaps we need to go over that rule about you making sure I know what I’m actually answering when I reply to a question of yours in the middle of the night”

“Boring!”

John raked his hand over his face and tried to pull his thoughts back to the present issue.

“So, this email, you just… typed out an answer there and then?”

“Of course. In between replying to a tedious fan letter requesting a threesome and a letter threatening my life, I looked in the mirror and wrote down what I saw.”   Sherlock arched out of the chair and stretched his back with a loud groan.  “Really, why are we still talking about this? It’s hardly important.”  He shut the lid of the laptop, walked over to pluck his violin out of its case and started to play.

John read back over the article then watched as Sherlock played, appreciating the effortless elegance he radiated with the violin tucked under his chin, his graceful arms moving the bow fluidly. He felt a wave of love and lust run through him at the visage although it struck a note of discord with the harsh words written in front of him.

After a few minutes of indecision John stood up and ran his small hand up Sherlock’s back to try and reclaim his attention from the violin.

 “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock slowly came back from his musical inner-world and turned to face John, eyebrows raised in a silent question. He carefully lay the violin in its plush case.

“Do you really think of yourself like this?” John asked and pointed at the newspaper again. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s sides and came to rest them on his hips. “As an oddity, a scarred freak? Do you really not know how attractive you are, or were you being purposely thick?”

Sherlock turned away from John’s arms and considered himself in the mirror above the fireplace. He studied one side of his face and then swivelled around to inspect the other, wrinkling his nose and pouting slightly. He prodded his left cheekbone with a well-manicured nail and let out a vague hiss.

“Why would I lie, John. I simply looked at myself and wrote down what I saw. I do believe that was the intention of the piece.” 

John came up behind him as he continued to study his features in the large mirror. John hugged him from behind, as well as his height allowed him, peering around Sherlock’s shoulder to meet his eyes in the glass.

“But you’re so vain! This article is the testimony of someone who detests their appearance. You look at yourself in the mirror all the time – surely it’s not insecurity?” He paused for a moment, still connected to Sherlock through his body and reflection. “You must know you’re gorgeous, I tell you enough!”

“What you tell me most is that I’m a prat.”  
  
“Yeah, but a gorgeous prat!” John leaned up on his toes to press a kiss to Sherlock’s jawline.

“Humpf!” Sherlock broke away from the embrace and crossed his arms.

“Hey, luckily for you being an obnoxious tit doesn’t actually alter your physical appearance!” John continued his teasing but soon sensed that it was not being taken as a joke. Sherlock still had his arms crossed and looked mutinous. Perhaps he really was insecure about how he looked? John took pity on him and sidled closer again.

 “Seriously though…We’ve been together nearly six years. If you don’t truly know by now how gorgeous you are I clearly haven’t been doing my job properly.”

“Oh?” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows looking perplexed.

“Perhaps you need more convincing…” He flashed Sherlock a cheeky wink and sidled closer.

“What do _you_ see when you look at me then?” Sherlock returned the wink and looked up at John coyly through his long lashes.

“Fishing for complements now, are we?” He moved in front of Sherlock, puts his arms around and gave his arse a firm squeeze.

“Hmm?” John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides. “Where to begin?” His hands came to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders then he stroked them upwards to graze his long exposed neck.

“How about here?” He whispered and pressed kisses up the length of Sherlock’s neck, either side of his adam’s apple, along the underside of his jaw and then down again to his collarbone, drawing back the open edge of his shirt to allow his lips access to the soft, pale skin underneath.

“Your neck… mmmm… I’m so glad you cover it up most of the time or I would be in a permanent state of arousal and never get anything done.”  

John’s hands moved backwards to stroke through the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head, drawing soft circles with his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes closed as the feeling triggered the memory of dozens of post-coital hours in the same position.

“And your hair, you were right about that, although I could live without the world knowing where I like to touch you in bed. I love the feel of it…..even when you are 70 I’m never letting you cut it!”

“And your fucking lips!” He continued. “I fantasised about them for years before we got together, and they still seem so obscenely sexy.” John leaned up and licked and sucked at his philtrum. Sherlock seemed too stunned to respond much, just drinking in John’s words and no doubt trying to store them for future perusal.  

“And God! Your eyes, they are like tiny planets shining in the sky. I feel utterly destroyed when I look into them. Most people say ‘drowning in your eyes’ but I am engulfed by yours, pulled under and consumed. And I love your scars, not the memories they invoke, but the thought that you have survived. They are signs of your continued battle to stay alive. They are not a graveyard, they are a memorial. Of every time you put your life on the line to save me or come back to be with me.”

John had Sherlock in a tight embrace, tracing the lines of hidden scars he knew intimately.

“John you are so disgustingly sentimental! Where does all this _mush_ come from?” Sherlock’s words were sharp but the effect was lessened as he whispered the message softly and drew his arms tightly around John to pull him into a kiss. John had learnt over the past six years that whatever Sherlock _says,_ he appreciates romance as much as anyone, he will just never admit it. “Are you quite finished?”

“Only if you are convinced now that you are mind-blowingly attractive.”

“What I am convinced of is that I am going to reply to every request for an interview I am ever sent from now on if this is the consequence.”   He pulled John close and pulled him into an achingly tender kiss, his way of expressing the sentiment his mouth would never utter.

“I love you too.” John whispered, then in a complete change of pace, pushed Sherlock forcefully back on to the sofa and tugged at his belt buckle.  “Now”, he growled. “Let me tell you about a couple of other things I find incredibly attractive, namely… your cock, the feel of it deep in my mouth and the completely filthy face you pull when you come….”

 

[My Illustration to accompany this work](http://barbarismbeginsatholmes.tumblr.com/image/90869731770)


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